Pas de Deux
by Phantom Rosabelle
Summary: There are dances that her body remembers. Now a series of 500 word semi-related Sharon/Andy ficlets.
1. Pas de Deux

**Notes: **At some point while I was writing this I complained to my girlfriend that I was writing almost porn of people I don't even ship. She was like, "um, probably because you ship them." She's probably right. Which probably means there will be more, eventually.

**Pas de Deux**

**rosabelle**

She laughs, after, and lays her head on his chest.

"You should know," she says into the warm darkness, "that I do not casually engage in sexual intercourse—"

"Do we have to call it that?"

"Would you care to suggest an alternative?"

"I just thought you would've picked something a little more, I dunno, romantic." His arm curves around her shoulders, fingers trailing up and down her arms.

It makes her shiver and that makes her giddy, because no one has made her shiver in a long, long time. "You'll have to earn romantic, Lieutenant."

"What, you want me to take you to dinner?"

She nuzzles his chest. "Mmm."

"Should I bring you flowers too?"

"I like lilies," she murmurs, and smiles into his skin.

Years ago, her ballet school had done _Swan Lake,_ and she had danced the role of Odette. It was her senior year of high school, and the last year she'd ever danced.

She still has the shoes, somewhere.

She cannot remember the name of the boy with whom she danced the _pas de deux_, nor even his face—but she remembers the touch of his hands, and she remembers the dance.

On restless nights, she soothes herself to sleep by humming the tune and running through the steps in her mind. She thinks that she could perform the entire thing from memory, every last _plié_ and pirouette, if she had the strength to do it safely.

There are other dances that her body remembers.

Dances that leave her breathless and aching and smelling of him, her lips swollen and his arms scored with her fingernails. She presses her lips to one of the marks, and feels him stir.

She reaches up to touch his face, feeling out every wrinkle and line, everything that she'd noticed but hadn't taken the time to fully appreciate earlier. His eyelids flutter against her fingertips and she grows warm with delight.

She's been lonely, and she thinks this is what she's missed the most, this drowsy, languid _after_ where she is sore and satisfied and content.

It's something she has not allowed herself in twenty years, and she means to indulge herself now.

Her skin glides against his when she stretches.

There will be a next time, one where she allows him to be tender with her the way that he wanted to be, and another time where they do all the intimate things that make her breath hitch to remember them. There may be many more times after that. But tonight, his kisses have left bruises on her breasts and he held her hips so tightly that she can still feel the pressure of his fingers.

Tonight has been everything that she needed, and more.

He speaks her name, voice so different now than before, when he whispered it against her neck just to feel her tremble.

She closes her eyes and hums in response, and she falls into a sleep where her heart beats in rhythm with another's.


	2. Awakening

**Notes: **This was supposed to be a oneshot. Now it's... not. I make no promises, but it may become a series of loosely connected ficlets if I feel the urge to write more. I'll leave it marked as complete, though, because there's no plot to be found here. Thank you all for your lovely comments on the first "chapter." You guys are fantastic.

**Awakening**

**rosabelle**

She wakes several times during the night. Never enough to open her eyes, but enough to reach for the comforter that's slipped away and tuck it around herself. Enough to be aware that it is her bare skin the silky sheets caress, and that there is a warm body at her side.

Each revelation alarms her at first, and then she wakes a little more. Enough to remember, and she hums to herself and slips back into a comfortable sleep.

When she finally opens her eyes, it is morning. Light spills in through in the blinds, and wakes to find him contemplating her in lazy silence. The comforter has slipped again, down to her waist, and he doesn't pretend not to watch her.

She bites her lip and stares back, warmth in the pit of her belly from his open admiration.

The last time she'd shared a bed with a man, she had lain awake the entire night afterwards. The hundred times before, he'd touched her without thought for her own pleasure and she'd said nothing. The hundred and first was once too many, and she'd turned away from him and cried silently until dawn, all the truths that she had been avoiding suddenly very plain to her. There was no trust left between them, and her husband no longer loved her.

In the morning, she'd made herself a cup of coffee and asked him to leave.

She wonders now how different her life would've been if she'd divorced him then, instead of waiting all these years.

There is no way to way to know.

But this man, the one kissing her good morning with his tongue caressing hers and his fingers curled around her hair, unbothered that her teeth are unbrushed and that she still wears traces of last night's make-up... she is enjoying herself with this man.

She kisses him again, a short brush of her lips against his.

"Sleep well?" His voice is low with sleep, and his breath on her cheek makes her squirm.

"Mmm." She lays back, arms stretched leisurely over her head. She smiles up at him with no trace of embarrassment when he eyes her breasts. It is nice, feeling desirable. "Yes."

"You hungry?" His fingertips, rough and yet gentle, brush her thigh. "I know a place."

"Are you offering to take me to breakfast?"

"Hey," he says, and now his palm is warm against the inside of her thigh. "I can be very romantic."

"Breakfast—" Her breath hitches when his touch slides higher, inch by inch. "Sounds wonderful. But maybe—not _just_ yet."

"You sure?" His touch is infuriatingly light. "They have great omelets."

"I think I could stand to wait another hour," she murmurs, closing her eyes with a shiver.

She catches her breath when he finds what he's looking for and then he kisses her again with a murmured, "aye, aye, Captain" that makes her hum with laughter, and with no further thought, she gives herself over to enjoyment.


	3. Adjustments

**Notes: **... ongoing ficlet series, it is. This one directly follows the last one, but the other ideas I have are all sort of random and unrelated. I'm also open to suggestions, if there's anything y'all want to see.

And thank you all for keeping me entertained through this _unfairly long_ hiatus. SIX AND A HALF HOURS TO GO.

**Adjustments**

**rosabelle**

It's a late brunch they sit down to, rather than breakfast, seated before the bay window of the café Andy swears by. Sharon has forgotten the last time she went on a date (is this even a date, she wonders), and she is hard-pressed now to contain her smile. She presses her lips together and contents herself with studying the menu while he studies her.

The place is infused with the smells of fresh coffee and pastries. She breathes it in deeply and orders a latte with an extra shot of espresso; he asks for hot tea and gives her a look.

"What can I say, I had a late night and an early morning." She pauses. "And you _do_ know that tea is caffeinated, don't you?"

"What, do you think I'm an idiot?" He smiles, but his voice is uncharacteristically soft when he adds, "Sharon."

He draws her into his gaze. "Is this... good?"

She lowers her eyes to her menu without seeing a word of it, and worries her lower lip between her teeth. "If you have to ask if I'm enjoying myself, Lieutenant Flynn, I may have to seriously question your investigative abilities."

"I can't wait to read that evaluation, Captain." His amusement is clear, but the evasiveness of her answer bothers him. She can see it in the way he leans away from her just a hair, in the way the corners of his smile waver.

In that moment, it bothers her too.

She wraps her fingers around her water glass—it is too cold, too small to feel comforting in her hands, but her coffee hasn't come yet and she reaches for the glass without thinking.

"To tell you the truth," she says quietly, "this isn't where I thought I would be. With... anyone."

In some ways, she feels more naked in the face of her honesty here than she did when he was kissing her bare skin.

"And now that you are?"

"I _am_ enjoying myself." She slides her hands into the pockets of her sweater instead. The gesture calms her, and her fingers seek comfort from the soft fabric. "But I also... I've had a long time to get used to being alone and I have to tell you, I don't mind it. In a lot of ways, I have to say I prefer it. So this—_us_—is an... adjustment."

"An adjustment," he repeats. Slowly. Cautiously.

"Yes."

"Are you?"

"Adjusting?" She considers that when the server arrives with their drinks. She orders a vegetable omelet, the only thing she remembers from the menu, and takes a sip of coffee. It's perfect—strong, and just shy of being too hot. She takes another sip.

"I think it's too soon to tell. You might ask me again," she adds. "Say... Monday night, over dinner."

"Oh yeah?" He smirks at her now, all traces of his earlier concern vanishing.

She smiles in answer, watching him from beneath her eyelashes. "I hope you like Italian food."


End file.
